


devouring your grief

by puchuupoet



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Broken Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Depressed Bucky Barnes, Depression, Hopeful Ending, Horrible Self Care, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Canon Compliant, Protective Clint Barton, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 15:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puchuupoet/pseuds/puchuupoet
Summary: Just 'cause Clint said it was okay, that they could be dumb together, it doesn't mean he actually means it, reasons Bucky. Just 'cause Clint's climbing into bed with him, still giving him space, doesn't mean he'll be there in the morning.Clint wasn’t supposed to know; at least, not this early. Bucky tries to save his issues for at least the third date, but they’ve jumped the gun here, with the blood and bed sharing and now this. Whatever this is going to be.a continuation of "my head my heart"





	devouring your grief

**Author's Note:**

> Once again using fanfic as coping tools. This doesn't contain any graphic depictions of self-harm, but most definitely references those acts having occurred, as well as the thoughts that can go alongside those actions. Please keep yourself safe and be aware of triggers. 
> 
> This fic has more references to the aftercare and bandaging of self-harm, the emotional anguish involved with all parties, attempts at self-acceptance, and some very brief coping strategies (trying not to dig fingernails into skin, biting oneself to mask crying).

When Bucky starts awake from another nightmare, his mouth is dry and aching for whiskey. When Steve’s cough had kept him awake, way back when in that drafty room, they’d sip from their little bottle, hidden away in the kitchen. Warm and floating and able to breathe again, they’d cozy back up in bed, trying to keep the chill away.

Now though, it doesn’t do a damn thing to either of them, but Bucky still drinks it for the memories. He knows Steve still drinks occasionally, everything but whiskey. It left a different type of burning in Bucky’s throat when he realized that.

Bucky is trembling from the exertion it took to wake up. It was a deeper one this time, one that offered happy memories being ripped away from him, but this time, Steve was the one ripping away their history, leaving Bucky raw and alone, grasping for home.

He’s trembling from the chill that’s drying on him, sweat sticking to his skin; kicking at the blankets from how hot he suddenly is, his forehead flushed and aching. There’s a twist of betrayal in his gut, still reeling from the panic, that Steve is the one to shun him, even if it is just in his head. 

The bed shifts and out of the corner of his eye, Bucky watches Clint walk to the bathroom. His shoulders aren’t slumped (_like Steve’s have been_) and there’s a softness to his steps. Bucky doesn’t deserve to be treated like this; if a door was slammed then maybe he could find his footing in this hazy situation.

There’s a rustling in the bathroom, water running and a soft swear, and then Clint’s back, arms full, then spreading all of it out on his side of the bed. Bucky calls it _his side_ automatically, even if Clint only first looked at it several hours earlier. Clint exudes a casual intimacy that makes Bucky’s skin prickle, and he’s aware that he’s not not happy that Clint’s still nearby.

The mattress jiggles again, and Bucky waits for it. He can almost recite Steve’s disappointment word for word by now; how Bucky’s better than this, stronger, he should know better, asks what does he even gain from these actions. On really bad days, when the blood had seeped through the triple layers of bandages Steve had carefully placed, he would invoke God and guilt, mothers and responsibilities and shame. All from a place of confusion and hurt, Bucky knows; he gets that, that panic. But he can still recall those moments in vivid detail, that sinking knot of having disappointed God _and_ Steve with one swift stroke. 

It’s hard to come back from that sort of bitter disagreement, Bucky will admit. You can only plaster so many words on top of others before you’re just going through the motions of making yourself feel better. But they’ve apologized, followed Banner’s steps to reconciliation, and are getting their footing back. It’s nice, having that bit of home back. 

Bucky doesn’t tell anyone how he’s still coping. Doesn’t want to ruin the good thing going on with Steve. 

Clint wasn’t supposed to know; at least, not this early. Bucky tries to save his issues for at least the third date, but they’ve jumped the gun here, with the blood and bed sharing and now this. Whatever this is going to be.

He finally looks over at Clint, who’s just watching him, face neutral. 

_Can I?_ Clint signs, and Bucky notices only a slight tremble to the execution. 

“You don’t gotta, okay. I get it if it’s too much and you just don’t wanna deal with me.” He’s trying so hard to not tear at his fingernails, to distract himself from the waver in his voice. “I get it. I can take care of it, I’ve done it before.”

“Can I touch your leg?” Clint’s voice is softer than his signing and Bucky aches for him, for even bringing him into this fucked up mess that’s his head. 

Bucky wants to say yes, wants to say please, wants to cup Clint’s jaw and kiss him because Clint makes him ache in so many ways. But there’s a goodness there that Bucky isn’t deserving of, he’s sure of it. 

“Why,” and it’s not even a question anymore, just a plea that whatever this is, he can’t stand the liminality of it anymore. He already wants to crawl out of his own skin half the time, and can’t see any appeal in why Clint would want to join him in that raw exposure.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt, Buck. If I can make any of it better, why wouldn’t I?” Clint pauses, waits until Bucky meets his eye and nods. “Any reason you want me to stop, tell me.”

“...you shouldn’t have to though,” Bucky has to look away. “It’s not your mess you gotta deal with.”

“Can that be for me to decide?” Clint’s hand finds Bucky’s, and god, for all of those callouses, his touch is delicate against the back of Buck’s hand. Neither move until Bucky finally twists his wrist, lets their fingers interlock like earlier. 

“I’m a goddamn mess, Barton. Half the time I don’t even want to be around me.” 

“Is that why your first aid kit is shoved in the back under your fuckin’ sink pipes?” Clint’s tone is light and it causes Bucky’s shoulders to clench. 

“I take care of myself fine.”

Clint meets his eyes, moving his hand from their grasp down to Bucky’s foot in a very obvious way. He gently wraps his fingers around his ankle, the grip firm enough to be grounding. “Barnes. Bucky. You had a nightmare, we all do. Except all you had last night...tonight? Jesus, it’s still tonight. All you had available in your fuckin’ medicine cabinet were wraps and paper towels.” Clint’s grip tightens without thinking. “That is not goddamn self-care, especially when this is how it ends up.” 

Bucky’s stock still, body trembling from the nightmare and the whole goddamn night and the way he’s sitting, abs unhappy with the awkward angle. He flinches when Clint speaks again.

“Open your eyes, Buck. Please, just see what I’m seein’ right now.”

He knows what he’s going to see. He’s more than familiar with what he puts his body through on nights like this one. Bucky can handle the blood, the aftercare, the soft ache that leaves his muscles too soon. It’s looking when others are looking that destroys him from the inside.

“Clint, please....”

A thumb strokes over his ankle bone, softer than it has any right to be. Too soft for Bucky, even on a good day. A deserving day. 

“The wraps are all coming off, Buck, from when you were thrashing around, but the paper towels are still…” Clint’s voice cracks a little. “They’re still stuck to you, soaked through.” His fingers tighten, snug and hard against Bucky’s ankle, as if to keep him from running from Clint’s words.

“I’m sorry,” and he is, he truly is. Bucky’s sorry Clint is faced with all of this with no warning, sorry that he got pulled away from his barbeque and never went back. He’s sorry for what he did to Steve, that he can’t fix what happened and he’s sorry for thinking that maybe it’s not completely his fault, but that guilt eats him up faster than anything else does. Bucky has ruined good things and doesn’t deserve them in his life again. He’s not sure he could live if he were to repeat any of those previous actions. 

“Stop it, man.” Clint’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “You’ve gone through hell, you’re a good man, and you deserve nice things.”

Bucky sucks in a breath and finally looks at Clint. The other man’s eyes are red, eyelashes stuck together at awkward angles, as if he had been just rubbing at them. “You gonna buy me nice things, Barton?” he asks, voice rough. Humor is good, safe. 

“Not at four in the morning, I’m not.” The smile Clint gives him is not unkind. “I’m gonna help you get cleaned up and back to sleep, and then maybe we can talk nice things later on today. Whaddya think?”

“I...yeah. That could be good.” 

“Good man,” Clint smiles, softly petting Bucky’s ankle again. “Let me grab some more things.”

_Some things_ consists of washcloths and a bowl of warm water. Bucky just watches, content with nodding his head instead of speaking his okays, not trusting the strength of his voice. Clint had wrapped him in blankets after a soft sponge bath, and Bucky was mostly warm and slightly drowsy. The only part of him exposed— literally and figuratively— was his leg, solid muscle and shredded skin stretched out, paper towel bandages futilely hanging out. 

“I’m gonna try and not hurt you,” Clint’s starting to look like shit, more than when he first entered Bucky’s room so many hours ago, and Bucky can feel it in his touch. 

“Shouldn’t that be my line tonight?” 

Clint barks out a hoarse laugh. “Fucker, yeah, it should be, after all this.” He sobers up quickly, shooting Bucky a guilty look. “Not that I’m complaining or anything…” he trails off. Bucky just waves his hand, the blanket trailing like a cape. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

Clint eyes him before nodding. “Dunno about your superhuman healing shit, but this may sting a bit.”

Bucky bites his tongue before he can be flippant; before he can make a comment about wanting the sting, that burn reminding him of what he can’t cleanse from his body. He just watches Clint, the slow movement of washcloth to bowl to Bucky’s calf, the placement over the dried up blood, the stuck paper towels. He can feel the loosening, unnaturally fast showing scabs being softened up and flaking off in the cloth. 

The repetition is soothing, and Bucky finds that his breathing is mirroring Clint’s, the rise and fall of their shoulders in tandem. He’s not sure how much time has passed before Clint’s meeting his gaze, gesturing with his chin.

“Can you hand me the neosporin from over there?” and Bucky looks to the pile still sitting on Clint’s side of the bed. The correct first aid pile, with actual fabric bandages and soft gauze and healing drugs; not his half-assed stash of old ace bandages and that half-roll of paper towels. 

“Is this for me or you?” he asks, cause while the answer isn’t important, the _answer_ is vital to him. 

“Yes,” Clint doesn’t look up from where he’s starting to dab the neosporin on the superficial cuts. 

“That’s not a real answer, Barton, come on,” Bucky twitches when Clint’s hand gets too close to his calf, near the main mess. He’s healing normally, as far as he can tell. Not like any of this will actually leave a mark, not like the times before when his body was still his, whole and intact and breakable. Give him another few hours and everything will be fine and smooth, just a soft lingering bruise that’ll fade with the moonlight.

When Clint doesn’t respond, Bucky huffs out a harsh laugh. “Steve or Stark would have an actual answer for me. Not dodging a simple question like that.” He can’t bite back the venom in his words, even if he doesn’t mean for it to come out that harsh. If he’s not allowed to destroy himself, then, well, he’ll aim elsewhere.

Clint tenses at the words, straightens up and walks to the bathroom. When he comes out a few minutes later, leaning against the door frame, there’s water dripping down his neck, his face pink from being rubbed dry. His eyes are still wet though. 

“Do you see Steve or Tony here? You want me to call ‘em up, have one of them replace me?” When Bucky doesn’t answer, Clint pushes on. “You can tell me to leave, to stop touchin’ you, to stop any of this. I may not like it, but I’d respect your choice. But jesus, Buck,” his voice breaks. “I’m not gonna choose to just up and leave you here alone like this, I _can’t_.”

“Your friends, the barbecue…” Bucky’s not sure what he’s trying to say, but he knows that he doesn’t deserve any of this attention, that he’s already overstayed his welcome in Clint’s presence. 

Clint stares at him, and Bucky shrinks back in the blankets. “What do you want, Buck? Want me to call Steve up for you and let him take over? If you don’t want me here, just _tell_ me, please, outright.” Clint’s eyes flicker towards the bedside table where his phone is, then glance briefly to Bucky’s face. “It’s fine, really, if you’d rather he— “

Bucky chokes out a loud sob, cause yeah, that’s the problem isn’t it, he wishes he could lean on Steve still, trade places and have Steve clean up his scrapes and cuts for once, let Steve worry from the other side while still supporting Bucky. He doesn’t have the energy to cry though, not after this _entire fucking night_ and why hasn’t it ended yet? Another sob breaks out, and Bucky has to muffle it, does so, and hears Clint’s gasp before he realizes what he’s doing. 

“Bucky, c’mon please,” Clint’s coming at him, palms out empty and voice awkwardly smooth, gently wrapping fingers around Bucky’s wrist. “Baby, let go,” he soothes out, and Bucky lets Clint pull his hand away from his mouth, a solid bite imprinted in the meat of his thumb. 

“Breathe with me, kay?” Clint’s not making direct eye contact, Bucky realizes. He’s staring at Bucky’s forehead, counting out his breathing as he settles himself on the edge of the bed. Bucky’s too tired to not follow along, and he lets himself fall into Clint’s rhythm— for the umpteenth time tonight— and tries to get his muscles to relax. Eventually it works, and Bucky starts to breathe fine on his own. 

“Goddamn doll, I’m gonna run out of band-aids if you keep attacking yourself like that.” A laugh follows, but it’s the type that breaks Bucky’s heart, reaffirms what he’s been doing to Clint the whole night.

“‘m sorry, Clint,” he murmurs. “This wasn’t… You weren’t supposed to get caught up in all this.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, Barnes,” Clint’s voice is soft, and he shifts until he’s holding both of Bucky’s hands. “How does this sound? I finish up making sure you don’t bleed on the bed, you drink some water, and we go the fuck to sleep?”

“What about—-”

“Nope.” Clint squeezes Bucky’s hands. “We need sleep before talking. We need _food_ before even thinking about talking. If you’re okay with it, and your body’s okay with it, we can wait. _I’ll_ wait for you, Buck.”

“So sleep, then food, then…” Bucky does his best to gesture with his shoulder, and Clint just nods. “And then you’ll buy me nice things?”

Clint snorts out a laugh. “The nicest. Now scoot over, I need to wrap this up.”

Bucky’s pretty sure the soft light through the curtains is the beginning of the sunrise, and he makes a sad noise into his water glass. Clint follows his gaze and just shakes his head. “You were never one to half-ass things, so I’ve heard.”

“Rumors of my stubbornness have been greatly exaggerated.” Bucky watches Clint snip the gauze and tape the end in place. There’s been a tentative lightness since Bucky’s most recent outburst, and he’s been quiet while Clint finishes up. Now hands were idle and this was not the scenario Bucky had been picturing when talking Clint into his bed.

“You still want me here?” Clint’s clearing off the bed and tucking Bucky’s leg back under the blankets. “Whatever’s comfortable for you.”

“Stay, please,” and Bucky’s heart twists at the smile that graces Clint’s face. Clint finishes turning lights off, and Bucky feels the bed dip as Clint joins him. His toes brush against Bucky’s, and he shivers at the touch. They both settle down on their respective sides, and Bucky starts to get lost to the abstract of time. 

“How’d you want me?” Clint’s voice breaks through his thoughts, and it takes some effort to not blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. Bucky’s been here before, post-highs and lows, and is familiar with the flurry of contrasting emotions. Of being self-hating and craving and frozen in place. But that doesn’t mean Clint is.

“Will you touch me?”

Bucky can practically hear the smirk on Clint’s face. “How so, sweetheart?”

“Nothing… below?” he starts, and Clint hums in agreement. “Is this staying between us?”

“No other way, Buck.”

Bucky trips over his words, trying to get them all out. “I like being the little spoon and I miss having my hair touched.” He waits in the low light, holding his breath, for whatever laughter may follow. He’s pretty sure he’s fucked up until Clint finally responds. 

“If you can roll on your side, I can take care of you.”

_Jesus._

Shifting onto his left side, Bucky arranges his legs so that the bandaged one’s as out of the way as possible. He might not give a shit, but he knows Clint does. “Ready,” he whispers, feeling silly and desperately wanting, all muddled together. 

He feels Clint’s hand touch his elbow briefly before sliding around his middle, palm moving up before pressing against Bucky’s chest. Then Clint’s molding his body to Bucky’s and yeah, he’s missed this sorta connection. Lips brush against the nape of his neck and Clint presses his hand tighter against Bucky’s chest. 

“This good?” and fuck, the sweetness in Clint’s voice almost disguises the way his body is tight against Bucky’s. 

“Better than,” Bucky gets out, and can feel Clint’s laughter on his skin. “You wanted me to sleep, right? Cause it’s not gonna happen if you keep doing that.”

“I’m gonna big spoon you so hard,” Clint whispers, and that’s it, Bucky’s choking on laughter, which is so fucking wrong after this entire night, but it feels so good, especially when he can feel Clint laughing as well. 

“I’m still making you talk in the morning, Barnes,” Clint tells him when they’ve both calmed down. “‘m not angry or disappointed or any of that. Just, I wanna make sure you’re safe. I’d be a bad partner if I didn’t.” Clint’s words start to die off into a sleepy silence. “I can feel your heartbeat, Barnes, spit it out.”

“Partner?”

“Fighting. Avenging. Sparring. Whatever.” 

“Whatever?”

“Means I’m gonna buy you nice things and maybe even hold your hand in public, sweetheart.” Clint presses a firm kiss to the soft spot behind Bucky’s ear. “Except not unless you go to sleep already.”

“That sounds nice,” Bucky manages to get out, snuggling down against Clint. He’s able to match his breathing with Clint’s more easily now, and the comforting sync of their bodies has him quickly drifting off, the New York morning brushing softly against their tangled breaths.


End file.
